


Ye Ol' Tolkien Pub

by Scifi_gk



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: And ruminating on their authors, F/M, Fictional Characters having an ale, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Tumblr Prompt, and the fact they're messing with them, crack!fic, imaginexhobbit tumblr prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:44:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7461708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scifi_gk/pseuds/Scifi_gk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're a character in a Tolkien book and the fanfic writers are surfing the latest craze, sometimes you just wanna have a stout brew with a quiet mate and not talk about it. But you'd do well to remember you're never really off the clock. :-P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ye Ol' Tolkien Pub

**Author's Note:**

> In an epic case of Procrastination Station to avoid my CampNaNoWriMo2016 WIP I've been mining a tumblr page called imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com where they post prompts like: "Imagine a Durin holding your hair back as you're sick from overdoing it with the ale." Usually accompanied by a motivating gif or other Hobbit image. And they also post the links to filled prompts either there or links to the author’s tumblr. There is a mountain of fics to mine here and I’m loving it.
> 
> But…
> 
> I’m very amused how many authors have taken up this one particular prompt: "Imagine falling into Middle Earth, but literally falling from the sky and landing in Thorin's lap."
> 
> In my mind, women are falling out of the sky left and right on top of Thorin and I can’t help but be amused by it. If fictional characters ever sat down at a pub with other fictional characters and just had a beer/ale/grog together and talked, I could see this happening:
> 
> HERE BE CRACKY, TOLKIEN-BASED CHARACTER WRITER FIC (general audiences)

Thorin shoved the door to the bar inward, forgetting his own strength in his irritation, and causing it to bang loudly. Conversations paused and silence descended as every eye in the bar took in the newest patron.

Thorin glared back at them until the noise level resumed and they all went back what they were doing. All but one tall, bearded human dressed in travel worn clothing with shoulder length brown hair that could use a scrubbing. Thorin’s eyes were drawn to the sword at the man’s side. Like Thorin’s own sword, Orcrist, this man’s weapon was a sword of legend: Andúril.

When he looked up again the man was quietly, unflinchingly watching him. He made a tiny gesture of the head indicating the space beside him then turned around and ordered another ale, placing it on the bar beside him, in front of the stool next to his.

Thorin didn’t make him wait. He came here for a drink and if he had to drink it with someone towering over him, there were worse choices than this one. He could have to deal with that dratted wizard again. Or, worse, Thranduil.

When he reached the bar, he ignored the stool and grabbed the tankard, taking a deep draught of the proffered beverage, pleased to note it was a stout Dwarven brew. He ran the back of his hand across his beard and mustache, wiping away the foam there before acknowledging the man.

“Strider,” Thorin said, nodding his greeting and thanks as one.

“Master Dwarf,” Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor, more commonly known as Aragorn, said. Thorin noted him glancing at the stool before he said, “Will you not sit?”

Thorin eyed the stool for a second with a slight grimace before ignoring it again, placing his elbows on the bar. He hitched a booted foot onto the foot rail and reclaimed his tankard. When he brought it back towards his mouth he noted Aragorn’s curious eyebrow raise and halted the momentum long enough to mutter, “It’s probably better if I stand,” before finally bringing the brew to his lips and savoring another pull.

To distract the quietly observant Ranger, Thorin said, “Shouldn’t you be with Arwen, having slow motion Elven sex on a settee or something?”

Aragorn chuckled into his own drink before swallowing and clearing his throat. “I can hope that that is to be my future. Unfortunately, like Tolkien, this new batch of writers is having difficulty letting Arwen choose to become mortal. We have been spending much of our time lately separated and in the third of the seven levels of writer’s hell.”

Thorin grunted, nodding sympathetically. “Ah, Angst. I know it well, my friend. It’s practically part of my kingdom.” He took another pull of his brew. “Still, it’s better then Insanity/Rage,” and here, he paused to eye the Man, “though, you wouldn’t know that domain, would you?”

Aragorn met his eyes steadily. “I’ve skirted the edge a time or two, sir. Though, I concede, you have waded farther in and spent much more time there than I. Are they,” he leaned in towards Thorin, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry, “preparing another visit there? Is that why you are restless and wary of sitting still?”

Heat bloomed in Thorin’s cheeks and he thanked Mahal for his beard and long hair, knowing that his flush wouldn’t show…at least not to anyone sitting more than a foot away. It was hopeless to think Aragorn missed it, though. The hawk-eyed Ranger missed nothing.

“Undoubtedly,” Thorin acknowledged, quietly. “The whole purpose of my storyline is to overcome the Dragon-sickness that waits for me in Erebor, reclaim my honor, and fulfill my destiny, whether the writers let me die or find a way around that that allows the line of Durin to survive. But that is not why I choose to remain standing.”

Aragorn quietly waited for Thorin to speak and Thorin was reminded of why he liked the young Ranger so much. He had the patience of a hunter and didn’t have need for buckets of useless words. He spoke when he had something worth saying, or when something needed saying, but otherwise held his own counsel. He would make an excellent ruler if his writers would let him leave the battlefields, _or the bedroom, he thought wryly,_ every once in a while.

He sighed in the face of Aragorn’s patience. “Something has changed.” Thorin stared morosely into his tankard. “The writers are doing… **something**. There has been a spat of…” He stopped, leaving the sentence hanging and looked over at Aragorn, leaning in close. “You haven’t noticed,” he dropped his voice to a very low whisper, “women falling from the sky?”

Aragorn drew back in obvious surprise, his eyes widening a little, then looked around as if to make sure no one had heard that and leaned back in. “Women? Falling from the sky?” he asked slowly. His voice was incredulous but at least he kept it low and private. Thorin matched his tone.

“I know! It’s sounds like more madness, though, as far as I know Durins only have a weakness of mind in regards to gold, but who can tell with these writers. I swear to you, it seems like every time I sit down, a woman – usually a human woman who has little to no notion of Middle Earth – falls right into my lap!” he hissed, vehemently. “Skinny ones, fat ones, tall ones, short ones, doesn’t matter. They’re all elbows and knees and bruising my kidneys. Though,” he looked up, noting the ceiling of the tavern and saw Aragorn do the same, “I admit, I’m usually outside when this happens. Perhaps, I could chance it.”

The last was almost a question and Aragorn nodded sagely, though Thorin could see the man’s lip give a minute twitch. Thorin ignored it. It wasn’t the first ribbing he had gotten over this situation. After all, he was here, drinking with a Man, instead of with Dwalin and Balin or any of the rest. He was just so tired of being jittery.

“Alright,” he muttered mostly to himself. He pulled out the bar stool, gave one more thoughtful look up at the ceiling, which Aragorn followed again, then, holding his breath and squinting his eyes, he eased onto the stool. When nothing immediately happened, he released the breath, stretched up from his crouched posture, opened his eyes fully, and grinned. Picking up his tankard, he turned toward Aragorn to toast his success and the minute his knees cleared the bar…

WHOMPH! CRASH!

“Oh, for Mahal’s sake!” Thorin cried, instantly letting go of his tankard to catch her and clutch her to his chest.

Aragorn jumped back, spilling his own drink in the process of trying to avoid the human woman that had just fallen from, literally, **thin air** into Thorin’s lap. The momentum of her fall caused the bar stool Thorin sat upon to crack and splinter into a thousand pieces and he and his lapful of new lady-friend were unceremoniously dropped to the floor in the wreckage, once again throwing the bar into complete silence.

Thorin ignored them all, looking instead at the woman cradled in his arms. This one had huge brown eyes and brown hair so short it must have been shorn off due to illness, for Thorin could think of no other reason a woman would have such short hair.

And she was definitely a woman; he could tell, despite the drastically short hair. And not just because this was what he’d gotten used to since this alarming trend had begun. No, this woman was soft and curvy and, somehow, through all the destruction, she had managed to keep her elbows and knees from doing any damage. Even the tumble from the bar stool was mild and for the first time since this had started happening Thorin thought he might walk away without a single bruise.

It made him more agreeable than he’d been in the past. More agreeable still when this one opened her mouth and breathed, “Thorin Oakenshield,” in wonder and awe.

Over her shoulder and standing above them both, Aragorn stood, gaping. This also improved Thorin’s mood and he grinned, lifting his eye brows at the man before dropping his gaze, and his voice.

“Y/N,” he rumbled because he wasn’t a fool. He knew the reaction it got and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Oh,” she breathed. She looked down at the wreckage, at the fact she was sat on Thorin’s lap, spared one glance around the room in which she obviously dismissed everyone else and met his eyes again, sliding her hands around his neck to bury them in his hair, lightly but sensually scraping his scalp with her nails. “I’m sorry I wrecked your chair,” she said, her voice honey-sweet and already husky. “Can we skip right to the kissing?”

“Ghivashel, it would be my pleasure,” Thorin grinned, leaning in to capture her lips. She didn’t hesitate, tasting of strawberries, and Thorin thought perhaps this wasn’t such a bad trend after all.

It was, hands down, much more enjoyable than suffering another bout of Dragon-sickness.

the end?

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt can be found here: http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/130515088423/imagine-falling-into-middle-earth-but-literally


End file.
